


Amphora Series

by spookyhat



Series: Caravan [1]
Category: DCU (Comics), Justice League - All Media Types
Genre: Mother Superior is a Non-Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:53:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28445721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookyhat/pseuds/spookyhat
Summary: A spinoff of the widely-acclaimed line Caravan, following the titular member of the young team's strange encounters with a young witch.This work is a short fiction based on a home tabletop campaign, itself based on the extended DC Universe. The campaign is primarily focused on the OCs of us, the players, and the epic narrative our DM has woven for them. Its primary influences are Young Justice and the CW Arrowverse, though the canon established for the campaign merges many influences from multiple comic lines, animated series, and films. This short fiction is essentially prompted narrative about our OCs within this universe, and their interactions with both canon and noncanon elements of the universe.For a collection of all works and relevant character biographies, reference this Google Doc: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1IseC4Nqwiqo6a9k27Zk-wOzCQ3NrdEtsildivJV7nN0/edit?usp=sharing
Series: Caravan [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2083623





	1. #1

Amphora dropped by his favorite coffee shop in Seattle on his way to morning mass. However, he was caught off guard by something. The olive-skinned barista looked nervous as the young monk entered, and when he approached to order his half-fat mocha with crema (a $12 order, but Amphora's wallet bore both the Titans Initiative Charge Card and the Holy Roman Catholic Card Credito), he caught the whiff of something... burning. Rather sulfur-like, in fact. While the barista nervously took his order, he gazed over the counter, leering into her space - but found nothing, save her phone and some incense along the rear counter. 

He resigned himself to his drink, preparing his mind for the mass, until the sense hit him again. Within the palm of his hand he quietly conjured his illusion-piercing scales, and peered around him. The veil was breaking thin in this place - acrid ash drifted through the air, and his gaze was drawn to the counter once more. The barista wore a chain around her neck, and was marked on her skin with signs of the beast - covered with makeup, and perhaps witchcraft.

No sooner did she catch his gaze did she disappear into the back room, and so did Amphora into the alleyway behind the building, intent to question her motivations. He arrived as she was leaving, and stopped her with a soft tone. 

"Sister, why do you hold to those dark ways?"

She was taken aback, and braced herself against the red brick wall. "Th-the beast protects me! It holds me in the darkness, past the lights reach!"

Amphora sighed deeply. "I see this. Fear not, for God still loves you; and though you may fear, there is no reason. All is well in the brightness of day, where monsters seem to dwell in the night."

She spat. "Fuck off! I don't need your god, and I don't need a sermon!" Her voice quivered, but she was resolute. Amphora could not help but feel pity, though he knew that there was a higher level their discussion might be able to place.

"What is your name? I am Malak, though my Christian name is Ibrahim."

She didn't seem any less tense as she answered. "Sybil. They named me... Ytrea."

"Ytrea, then; I understand your pain. We are all at some point lost in the darkness that flows past our sight. It blinds us, and drives us to make hard bargains. But to trade your soul for freedom is just that - a barter for a blind woman. I trust you already know this, though. You are not a lost lamb; you're a witch, and your work is made more potent by your wisdom."

She gritted her teeth. "What do you want, chauvinist?"

"I want to talk, but I wish to be equals. There can be no progress without discourse, as millennia of history can tell you. Being honest, with time I wish to rid you if the beast's scourge - but that is truly a choice one must make on their own." Amphora stepped onto his mirror, and smiled at her. "Be sure to place proper sealing sigils onto your spells; brimstone can get into the coffee."

She glowered at him as he lifted away. The bastard would come again, and that's all she needed to know. A priest for her coven? He'd be a good prize.


	2. #2: Devil's Brew

Deep in the distant jungles and forests, there lived creatures touched by entities beyond our understanding. These unholy creatures might create hellhounds, or devil-boars, or demons too horrific to be described. Sometimes, they might possess an Asian Palm Civet, known for its exceptional ability to produce high-quality Kopi luwak - some of the most expensive coffee in the world. When fermented in the gut of a fiendish civet, it becomes some of the most potent magical poison in the world - though it does not kill, it causes severe pain, incapacitation, and coma, with no mundane antidote to speak of. Such a poison would surely be effective on anyone in the world who did not foresee its coming.

Amphora stirred his coffee with a miniature spectral spear. Before him, on his table, a book lay open to a glowing rune. Behind the counter of the small coffee shop, a witch sat, fuming. That coffee had cost her coven thousands of dollars, and the bastard was dispelling its magic like it was nothing. She hopped the counter and took a seat across from him.

"Sybil Ytrea! This brew is stunning - such depth of flavor. Shame about the poison." He smiled as she sat, sipping at his coffee. 

"You're a douche. If you're not going to drink it, at least don't waste it." She grabbed the cup from him, and cradled it in her hands. "Why the hell are you even here?"

"I told you; I want to talk. It might surprise you, but I understand your situation." Amphora pulls his book towards him, leaning forwards on his elbow. 

"You don't understand shit. If you'd been where I've been, you'd be dead." Her posture loosens, and she rests her shoulder against the cold glass window pane.

Amphora nods. "I'm sure; we all must face trials of our own. I was raised an orphan, and knew no stable home. What of you?"

She cuts her eyes to him, glaring holes in his cheekbones.

"No, no - pardon me for prying. You, of course, have your privacy." He sighs. "The reason I do what I do is that I have a duty - to God, and to man - to help all be saved and join our father in heaven. I have been blessed with the opportunity to do this. What hardship you may face, I am sure you have blessings to contemplate. It is important to consider our good fortunes, Ytrea, for they are God's gift, given freely to all. Misfortune and hardship are ever-present dangers, so it is wise to hold onto the good."

Sybil stands and leaves with the mug of coffee, returning behind the counter and storing the venomous brew away. Amphora reaches for his book and makes for the door - but stops. 

"Sybil!" He turns and calls to her - attracting an amount of unwanted attention from the other patrons. He quickly approaches and leans over the counter, placing a hand on his forehead to wipe away the illusion - revealing the symbol of Eclipso. She glares at it, obviously taken aback.

"Sometimes our blessings can seem as curses, until we find their proper use."

* * *

Pope Francis stood above the prostrate Ibrahim Malak Sidrak, concern in his eyes. He spoke to him, fearfully, in Italian. "Do - do not worry. I will never abandon a child of god in need." He falls to his knees, and wraps the younger man in a tight hug. "This will be a difficult path - but God shall deliver his people."


	3. #3: Witches of Ink

Amphora sat in a dark room, a single harsh light bearing down on him. He sat in a metal chair, leaning forwards onto his knees. Just the day before, Sybil had given him a card - a time and a date to meet, if he truly wanted to discuss things civilly. He had pondered whether to go, and whether to alert the other Titans, or the League - but decided against it. This was a foe he must face alone. 

Suddenly, a spotlight fired. An older woman, nude and covered head to toe in tattoos - her head shaved to make more space for ink - stood behind it. "You're a dumbfuck. I have magical seals lining the building, and witches at every exit. I can't believe you actually came. Ytrea, you've outdone yourself... sister." Sybil Ytrea, the witch-barista, stepped into the light.

"You know, it is your fault. But, maybe she'll let you live if you show her what you showed me." She smiles widely, her hands on her hips.

Amphora took his hat off and stood, placing the hat on the chair. "You know, I don't enjoy gossip. Not among cliques or covens. Still, I will humour you. I trust you haven't told them yet." He places a hand on the magic circle on his forehead, wiping it away and leaving a glaring eye in its place.

"It's true, then, sister. He's got some pretty good ink - for a man." The tattoed witch stepped forwards. "I'm glad you showed me you might have some value. The spirits said he had been destroyed - but now, he might be in you. Odd, it seems - to find his way into a priest." She stalked to the left, circling him somewhat.

"You've got ink on your face - what about your body?" She grabs his robes and pulls them apart, revealing his bare chest, covered in magic sigils. "Ah, there you are. You're not a priest at all, aren't you? You're a witch. And you're delusional."

"I'm not a priest or a witch. I'm Ibrahim, and I'm a Franciscan monk. These spells are divine in origin, and channel the archangels. I'm sure you could figure that out. I was trained by the mortal Lord of Order. I fear for what the symbol on my head means, and I wish only to bring peace and eternal life to you and your people." He stands still, chest bare, watching the sauntering witch and the one who brought him here. "You are a witch, and you serve demons. They only tell lies and bring evil and suffering into the world; and the magic they give you is shoddy and unpracticed." The large symbol on his left pectoral begins glowing a pale blue light, and a spectral green spear appears over his shoulder. It twirls through the air, running along the walls, and driving itself into the witch, with a host of small fist-sized demons impaled on its end.

She gasps, and clasps at her chest, but her hands pass through the weapon. Her skin begins to wrinkle slightly, and her voice grows hoarse. "You fucker! I'll have your head. I'll bring him back!" She points at Sybil. "You! Stop him and prove you're not a fuckup like her!"

Sybil's eyes widen, but she rushes forwards, chanting something in demonic tongue. The room begins to glow red, and hands begin to grasp at Amphora's shoes and pants, sizzling and burning as they do so. They grab, as well, at the witches feet, but their heat does not affect her. 

Amphora pulls and falls backwards, grabbing his chair as he lands, and he throws it towards Sybil, breaking her concentration. The hands grasp at the brim of his wide hat as it falls to the floor, and he lifts it out of their reach as he turns to face the witches. "Can't you see the pain of this life? The suffering it brings?"

"Yes. And we revel in it." The witch says, as the grasping red hands catch hold of the spear’s tip and pull it from her chest. Sybil, fallen from her blow, turns to see as her mentor's eyes and hands burn, reaching for Amphora.

The spear transforms into a mirror, the micro-demons skitting across the floor and around the grasping palms into dark corners. The mirror intercepts the witch's grasp, and Amphora turns to Sybil. "Please, reconsider your path. Have my head and call on the Eclipse, or reject this madness and help me." She stares at him, blankly. She has no clue. She sits as he lops the hands out of his path with a flaming sword, and as he slices cleanly through the steel lock on the door. He runs away into the early evening, riding his stupid fucking mirror above the rooftops and into the skyline.

The witch curses her out. For minutes, perhaps hours. Then, she's grabbed by the hand and thrown into the hexing chamber. Sybil Ytrea begs for mercy as robed women begin to chant and sing, and the illusions Sybil placed begin to fall away, exposing her scarred and inked flesh. She sobs as they whip her, tearing her skin and pouring acid in her wounds. The head witch beats her.

"M-mother... Please..." She cries, tears running down her face.

"No, Sister. No words now. Only pain."


	4. #4: Dark Gift

He came every morning, 8 AM, before Mass at St. James. Each time he came in, he tried to talk to the barista. Each time, she had some new dread about how annoying he was, or how he might out her to her boss, or coworkers. She watched the news, and so did they - this guy was hanging around Supergirl and Robin Hood. He could have outed her and the Coven this whole time. But Superman hadn't been around in a few days - crashed schoolbus on I-95 proved that - and there was that crazy report from Gotham. Something happened to Batman and his brats. But that's east coast, not Seattle. So where the fuck was that priest?

Sybil tapped her feet, and checked the seals on the counter. Her coworkers hadn't found her unholy weapons, yet. They also hadn't noticed the fresh scars. Mother Superior hadn't let her ward those, said she needed to learn her lesson. Sybil leaned on her elbows and sighed.

"Boyfriend not coming?" Her coworker asked, giggling. "Cute black guy, face tats? He's your type." She brushed off the annoyance and took a fiver. This really isn't what she needed right now.

The witch-barista sat down in the back room, thinking about his last words to her. He had some arrogance, asking her to betray Mother. The misplaced confidence he had, to waltz in there, like he knew everything... like he could actually do something that mattered. If he has that demon inside of him, she thought, then it's only a matter of time before he breaks, and then he's just like us. A witch, forgotten by the world, and making do with the scraps of a life. 

She couldn't betray Mother Superior. She didn't even know how.

Black Mass, that evening, was difficult. She was reprimanded by the entire Coven, again - until Mother Superior stepped down from her pulpit in the tall, empty warehouse that they called their shadow-home. 

"Sister Ytrea, you have disappointed me - and you have made your penance. I can see that what happened was not your fault, but the fault of that pig-priest who tried to manipulate you. He tried to gaslight you, and he tried to break you. You did everything you could." She parted the crowd of robed witches, shadowed amrs growing from her bare sides. "Without you, we would not know the truth about this man. So, Ytrea;" she places her real hands onto Sybil's shoulders, pulling her down on her knees. "I believe I can reward you with something far greater than I can give the others. Will you accept this gift?" Her hands of shadow reach further, out towards the young witch.

Sybil knows that, if she's going to make a choice, it's going to be now. To accept Mother's mercy... she'll finally be within the coven. Properly. She'll have the honors that she really deserves. Maybe she can help Mother and her Sisters take down that bastard priest. And she'll be rewarded again, by the Dark Eclipse. 

"Please, Mother. I accept it. Thank you." She nods, a tear beginning to form in her eye. The shadowed hands wrap around her, hugging her tight to Mother Superior's midriff. They begin to sink into her, and as Sybil notices what's happening, Mother's Shadow is already passing to its new host. She screams for a short moment, all her magical wards bypassed by the Mother's touch, until her body falls silent, and her grin grows wide. "Ytrea is in the darkness, Mother Superior. Thank you for the gift of flesh."


	5. #5: Dark Days, Bright Nights

_ The nation watches in silence. Gotham City on fire - and where is the Justice League? What reports are coming out of the city were mixed. In some accounts, the heroes fight tooth and nail for every inch - sometimes alongside, and sometimes against the military. In some, the army are the heroes - and in others, it is a lawless no-man's land, where violence is rife and Justice absent. What this says for the future of our nation is yet to be determined. This is Lois Lane, Daily Planet Evening News. The President had this to say... _

Sybil rolled a plastic straw in her mouth, eyes gazing empty at the television screen across the cafe. The place was empty, so the volume was up and the hosts were lazing about on the furniture - business had slowed down a bit. Seattle, home to Mount Justice, had been seeing its own minor crime wave - even minor rogues understand that when the cat's away, the mice may play. 

The Priest. He must be in Gotham. If those clown bastards got him while he was over there, with her Get Out of Jail Free card, they'd have Hell to Pay. His soul was hers. Amphora... Ibrahim… Even the fool's name steeped in her mind, infusing it with revilement and sadistic pity. Oh, the tortures he would endure...

Her mind was shocked from its fantasies, as the door swung open, its chime filling the empty space. Lazily, she glanced up - and saw some strange person in fetish gear.

She stood no more than five feet, and wore some kind of latex or PVC french maid outfit, like a weird porno. She looked confident, grinning with her hands on her hips.

"This is a stick-up! Give me all the money in the register, and in your wallets!" She shouted, cackling and squeaking. Before she could react, she was flung backwards at a high speed - through the plate glass at the store's front, and out into the street - by a solid punch from Sybil's hand. Her face was that of fury, and from her body emanated dark energies. Her coworker looked at her, taken aback. He began to scramble for the bar.

The porno-villain, though, wasn't fazed. In fact, she bounced back up - literally, like she was being dribbled, her body compressed and reformed, landing her on her feet, where she skidded to a stop, striking a valiant pose. "Nice arm, girlie, but that don't work. I am Rubber, you are Glue - whatever you say bounces off of me, and sticks to you! RubberMaid! Nice to  _ beat  _ you!"

Sybil stared her down, the dark energy coalescing further. This annoying bitch was just getting on her nerves. She righted herself, and began to chant - something beyond dark. Holding out her hexing finger, an inky black magic circle appeared in the air, dripping dark essence onto the ground.

_ Your mother. How did she die? A car accident. You were watching. You were there, Kinsey. You did nothing. You stood and watched and let it happen. You coward. You didn't have the strength then, and god knows you don't have the strength now. You say you can bounce back, but We both know that yours is a deep and perverted facade. Become mired in your past, Kinsey; become lost in its depths. Rot, alone and still, in that corner of your memory. _

RubberMaid's nose bled as her eyes rolled back in her head, and her body crumpled onto the warm concrete. Sybil turned away.

* * *

Amphora summoned the Ankh, pleased with his progress. Green Arrow promised to fetch Nightwing some wingdings from the armory, and the Titans Initiative, save two, slipped through the gate, leaving the Bat Family to guard this entrance to the Tower of Fate. Amphora looked to Nightwing.

"Dick, I think I'm going to take this time to work on my witch problem." His voice was low.

"Amphy, if you needed any help, I'm sure you would have asked when they tried to sacrifice you the first time. You've got this." He put a hand on the priest's shoulder, and smiled. Amphora nodded silently, returning his smirk, and lept through the portal.

* * *

Sunset marked the skyline of Seattle, as Amphora ripped through the air on his magic mirror. In his ear, Crow quietly relayed his reconnaissance.

"-through the window, but she got back up. Your witch did some of her magic, and she dropped like a rock, just out front. Witch went back in, she's talking to her coworker."

"Understood. Stand by, I'll secure the maid and confront Sybil. My thanks, Crow. Don't get involved; she can likely detect you. Only I have the abjuration to block her mental blows." He dived towards the street, half a block from the coffee shop. Nobody was outside, but that didn't mean there weren't witnesses. That poor barista.

He touched down, and began to sprint towards the heap on the street. He kneeled down next to her, conjuring again his healing vessel, and examining her for life. Thankfully, the mental attack had only incapacitated her, and Amphora's magic was able to restore her blood pressure and brain activity to normal. She would ultimately be damaged by the encounter's memory, though; he noted to contact a JLA Victim Therapist.

With the maid secured, he stood, facing the open store. A man cowered behind the register while Sybil shouted something at him - how he was right to fear her, how she had resented him since she knew him. Untrue words, Amphora knew, but stinging lashes nonetheless.

"Dark Witch! You've fallen to depths I know you did not seek - and deeds I know you do not relish. Please, don't accept this as your fate!" He cried. His words were honest, but more than that, they meant to draw attention.

She spun, the dark aura around her inflaming with rage. "You! Priest! Bastard, son of a bitch, good-for-fuck-all pig! Come here, I need your soul!" She rocketed forwards at a ludicrous speed, fist raised in a dark magical strike - which was caught in place by his Mirror.

She stared at herself, at the dark aura coating her. Her clear skin shimmered and vanished, showing a body of scars - cut wrists, bruised face, ink marking dark symbols anywhere that could be seen. On her face, a wicked grin.

From her shoulders, indistinct arms reached - shadows, given form. They flowed through the mirror, onto Amphora's neck, and gripped him tightly. He gasped, grasping at the hands with his own, though they passed through the thick fingers.

"S-Sybil! Don't do this! This - ack - this isn't you!" He pleaded, but his words fell on deaf ears. As he watched, from her form poured dark clouds, which quickly eclipsed her and rose into the air, soon towering over the buildings nearby. Its hands remained clasped around Amphora's neck, until the excess of shadow fell away, leaving a distinct form. Rings of dark glowing runes surrounded the body of a thirty foot tall woman. Her face was unplaceable, at once featureless, and yet horridly beautiful.

**"You're right. It's not her."**

Amphora reached out a hand towards his book, forsaking his burning lungs and crushing throat for the magic he wielded. Lying on the street, it flew open, flipping through pages and stopping on his Rite of Uriel. In his open hand a spark appeared, and from that spark grew a wide, crooked blade, with which the priest cut into the Shadow's grasp. Groaning, she dropped him, her hand quickly reforming to its proper shape. 

"Then, demon, we shall fight!" Amphora dropped to a crouch next to the rubber woman's body. She was rousing, but not fully with them yet.

Suddenly, through a booming shock, Crow came from the sky. Damned to be left from a fight, he dived for the monster, feet first, launching a volley of Nth metal feather-blades from his wings. Despite his best efforts, though, his feathers disappeared into her form - and then he did too, re-emerging on the other side, shocked to see the ground approaching him rapidly. His wings barely caught him as he hit the ground tumbling, but he caught himself upright and skidded to a halt in a crouch.

She  **cackled deeply** , and stepped backwards, her visible form melting away into the steep shadows of the sunset.

Crow too, faded, and lenses fell over his eyes, with which he scanned the area - finding nothing.

"Crow! She's not of our realm - a Shadow creature. Take the maid and get out. I can handle her." Amphora waved him off, glaring into the darkness. He dismissed his blade, and conjured in its stead a pure gold balancing scale. He whispered more words and his book scattered more pages, conjuring his exorcising lance. 

Crow clicked his tongue, and dove towards the maid, grabbing her and soaring off into the sky. As he ascended, the rushing winds woke her, and she gazed at the assassin. "Are you... a hero?"

On the ground, Amphora began to see through the Scales of Truth. The shadows, their illusions, and lies could not hide from his gaze. In seconds, he found her, glaring at him from an alley. As quick as he did, she struck, powerful blows from fists the size of boulders, but his agility let him dance around her swinging strikes, unseeable as they may be.

He sidestepped the last of her series of blows and reared back to toss his spectral lance at the beast, pinning her to the coffee shop's alley-side wall. She thrashed and raged, gripping at the spear, but not budging it from her body. The sigils surrounding her began to flicker and fade - drawing Amphora's attention to the one that did not. 

Around her ankle, one stayed strong - its magic must have a different source. Amphora racked his mind for magical knowledge, for just a few seconds, until he recognized the symbols.

While Amphora drew his flaming blade and approached the pinned shadow, she grew desperate. In her fury, she began to bash at the spear, the wall, and her own chest. With the might only the great beasts of magic might hope to achieve, she tugged, and - miraculously - wrenched the lance from her bosom. But by then it was too late, as Amphora's blade fell onto her ankle - 

And shattered the Runes of Domination.

"A fraction, a copy, a mere evocation still, of Anti-Life. With a larger portion, though, of your True Name, she could bind you all the same." Amphora shook his head. Mother's Shadow slid along the wall, resting on the ground. Around her ankle, the runes reformed - runes of darkness, quiet, and of liberation.

**"You freed a Shadow Demon, priest. You are a foolish mortal - all others would have slain me in my weakness. And yet... I am in your debt. Eons of service to that witch, and now I am bound to a new host."** The shadows begin to flow into the alleyway, leaving Sybil Ytrea, her head in her hands, leaning against the filthy alley wall.

"I can't believe I let her trick me like this. She did things to me... She took my life and made it hers." Sybil looked at Amphora, raising her wrists, coated in scars. "She made me think, every day, that I owed her for living... and then she used me."

Amphora couldn't help himself. As he knelt down to her, he twitched, and placed a hand to his face, feeling - tears. It had been years since he had cried. He put that hand on her head, and put his forehead against hers, and the two mages cried in silence for a moment.

After a few minutes, he pulled back and spoke. "Sybil, you have been tempted into darkness, and drawn into vile deeds and horrid beliefs. We must mourn for the decades lost to evil. But yet, still, there is hope. In the future, and along the paths we choose to follow, there is light and goodness to be found. Redemption, god willing. There is a place for all of us, where we owe nothing."

Amphora gripped the hem of his coat and wiped the tears from Sybil's face. Then, he did the same for himself. He stood, shakily, leaning on the wall for support. And then, he reached to the witch. "Come on. Let's find it."

She grabbed his hand. The two lifted each other, leaned on each other, and walked out of the alleyway, into the fading light of the sunset.

* * *

Sybil wrapped the warm blanket tighter around her shoulders, and Amphora stepped over to the counter, setting the kettle to boil. "Coffee? We don't have Kopi Luwak, unfortunately."

She shakes her head. "No. I think I'm a bit sick of coffee."


	6. Paradiso, Purgatorio

"Wait, you're  _ that _ Freeze?" Sybil paused TransMorphers VI: Return of Jack and cut her eyes to the kindly German couple on the other side of the couch.

"Yes. Do not be worried, though - with Nora restored, I am leaving behind the regrettable life I have lived. Amphora - Mr. Sidrak - has given me what I thought lost all these years." Victor Friese, wearing a respectable sweater, places his mug of tea down on the table. Nora, in a loose sundress, wraps her arms around him from behind. "God's mercy."

"You will still be atoning for your actions, Victor." She says, seriously, in a thick german accent. "I shall see to it each day we are together." Her tone warms along with her face. Both blush, innocently, the picture of a happy marriage. 

Sybil was put off by the sickly sweet relationship - they were the perfect nuclear couple. Exactly what she hated about boomers. "Well, I guess if you're over all that, what's next?"

Freeze shakes his head, putting one hand over Nora's. "I couldn't tell you. I doubt Wayne Tech will allow me to return, given their stance on the Justice League. Your country will likely try and capture me, once again. Perhaps - like many before me, I can reform myself. Given the right public relations, I could make my story publicly available. Oh, Nora dearest, they have this television show now - the Morning Show. The worst people come on it, speak, and are exonerated. Millions watch it. I could clear my name."

"I think you should visit the people you've hurt. Tell them you're sorry. Oh, and return all the things you stole. Naughty, naughty Victor..." Nora is, somehow, unfazed by the news of her husband's fall from grace. Perhaps she's... a bit too used to his penchant for the extreme.

Fred, balancing a mountain of bowls of popcorn, enters from the kitchen and drops them on the table. "Hell yeah, Transmorphers! I binged the first couple already. Nice pick." He gives Sybil a thumbs-up. 

Shortly behind him, Pilot enters through the main stairwell. He takes off his helmet and unzips his flightsuit, dropping both behind him and grabbing an Arizona from the fridge. "Carver Coleman? Count me in." He grabs his phone and opens the camera - "Everyone in for a selfie!"

Sybil was astonished by the warmth in the room. There were so many people that she barely knew, and yet they were all being so kind, and accepting - a just-reformed villain and his frozen-in-time wife, a home chef from a different dimension, and a hot-shot influencer pilot... and, she supposed, herself - an orphaned witch, hosting some kind of shadow demon.

Before she knew it, a chuckle lept from her throat - and as she heard it, she felt tears begin to run down her face. Maybe... she had found someplace she could call home. Is this what kindness can do to people?

Pilot looked at her, concerned - he lowered his phone and put a hand on her back. Fred leaned over, one hand on her knee, and Victor looked on with concern as Nora grabbed for his handkerchief and placed a hand on her shoulder. Her face was in her hands - crying not in sorrow, but in overwhelming joy. Even among transient people, this was a moment she was happy she could have.

* * *

_ "This is new. I think I enjoy this." _ Came a voice from within her head. Sybil reacted with a start, shooting up, out of her seat.

"I'm sorry, I think I just need a second." She dashed off to her quarters.  _ "Why are you talking now? What do you want?" _

It responded slowly, plotting it’s answers like the tongue of thoughts was foreign to it.  _ "I'm fed by emotions, like all demons. You had been giving me only apprehension - a modest, if bland, dish. Your joy, though, was like a sweet roast, rousing me from my slumber." _

Sybil shook her head. "No! What? Just... why are you here?"

_ "Have you forgotten? I was bound to you, by Mother Superior. Now, the priest has freed me from domination, but I still require a mortal host - unless my bondage is loosened entirely. I cannot survive in the sun, however, and the Shadows of Hell are so dull and lifeless. I prefer being here, in all honesty." _

Sybil breathed deeply, leaning against a wall and wiping the tears from her red, bleary face. She had to remember that she wasn't just some girl - she was a witch. She had power. She had knowledge, and she could control a demon.

_ "Of course you can. I'm counting on it. After all, we must get our revenge... yes?" _

She paused. _ "Revenge?" _

The shadow within her pulsed.  **_"Revenge on Mother Superior."_ **


	7. #7: Bargain

Sybil crept through the dark streets of Seattle, steeling herself. She wrapped tighter her jacket, bearing in mind the purpose it bore. The heat tonight was not sweltering, but simmering, as if preparing to boil over. It would not be long before it reached that point. 

She rattled a box cutter open in her jacket's pocket, and ran her finger along its edge. Quickly, she drew it across a brick in the building by which she stood, and spoke softly; "Do what thou wilt." 

It was a mantra Mother Superior spoke often. It referred not to hedonistic practice, though it was often cited as such; instead, it spoke of finding one's true place in the universe - the true Divine Will that guided one's life. That was Thelema - and that was bullshit.

Sybil cursed the gods as she passed through the brickwork into the Hall of the Horned God - a semi-popular concert venue, built out of an abandoned butchery. Horned skulls dangled from the ceiling on meathooks - an aesthetic choice that concert-goers appreciated. With a wave of her hand, Sybil pierced the veil, and wiped away the illusion - corpses of beasts, dripping blood, took their place. One of the skinned forms jittered, as if a bit of life remained in its form. Sybil spat.

Continuing, she drew a purple stick of chalk from a plastic bag, and began to mark the floor and walls. She circled the pools of blood lining the floor, surrounding them with markings of sacrifice, and inscribed the rest of the spell onto the space between. There was plenty of space between the wide columns of the venue to finish the circle, and when it was done, she discarded the remaining nub of children's chalk.

In a few more moments, the ritual was prepared; candles lit, mantra playing off a bluetooth speaker, and her mind assembled. Sybil discarded the coat and kicked off her converse sneakers, leaving her standing in the buff in the dim space. She breathed deeply as she mentally recited her lines. There was little time to spare; so she had to work fast.

Her pure, undamaged skin began to peel away, as a serpent's skin - leaving her true form bare. Scars ran nearly everywhere that wasn't blackened by cigarette burns or coated in wide tattoos. They were of script, and images of beasts and deities. Hela, and the Furies; Bloody Mary, and Daji the vixen. Too, there are skulls, bearing horns. On her breast, a wicked scar lies over her heart - wreathed in black, and twisting as it spreads, like a cancerous growth. Over this, she paints with a white brush a symbol of treaty - of cooperation, of peace, and of healing - and, on a deeper level, a crossroads. It is a superimposition of many - a stroke away from Justice and Vengeance. A Spirit and her Host. She crosses her legs in the center of the circle.

A moment passes, before the beast speaks.

_ *"I see, you wish to bargain. You could simply ask, of course - I wouldn't dare mistreat a friend."* _ Sybil remains silent with her tongue of thoughts, the mantra helping to empty her mind.  _ *"Then, let us discuss our terms. Revenge, forthright; and a host besides. To do with as thou wilt - isn't that the line? Seems like everyone wants a bit more power. More, and more - until the flames of war in their collection begin to spread to their homes. Like a candle, burning down to its end. Like a moth to a flame. Acquire it, and it shall be your end."* _

Sybil concentrated. To her, the demon was attempting to gain more control. She knew she had the upper hand. Her binding sigil and offerings were tempting the thing. Demons knew no self-control, and always take what is offered - that is what Mother Superior had taught her.

"I give you my heart, to call your home; I give you my vessel, to contain your form. I give you my purpose, and my debts; my identity, and my life. You give me the same. A home, a form. Purpose, debt, identity, and life. Take this, and blood to sign our contract."

There were no more words. When Sybil opened her eyes, the blood and the corpses were gone. The growth on her chest was no more than another tattoo - a black spiral, over her heart. To always remind her of the she-beast that lay within. There was no more to be done; she stood, and addressed the next steps of her plan.


	8. #8: Like a Bat Out of Hell

she soared through the deep darkness. There was no sound, no sight - the shadow, the manifestation of void, was not there while she passed. Into the earth and through its grasp, the spirit found its way to its old cage.

The sign of the pact bore on her breast - Justice, to be sure; a signature that only a few would use. Perhaps, it was the fact that she was stamped with it that drove her to fly with such fervor. Revenge, the bitch, would be cold - slow, plotting, and utterly ruinous. Doom, too, would be dark - paced, coming relentlessly, with no urgency, to swallow one whole. But Justice, a desperate gamble it may be, needed swift action, for one evil deed is too many to bear sight of.

Though, it might have been Vengeance; the threads of meaning were loose, but an expert scribe might solve it. With hope, it was the former; the latter was the domain of something untoward, that no man, beast, or spirit should hope to emulate. There could not be two of its ilk - not one more of those Spirits of Vengeance.

A light shone from above - the judgemental glare of Saint Peter, and the knowledge of truth it holds. The spirit did not care that it was being followed. In fact, it relished the attention. Watch me, it thought. Watch me bring an end to this saga. Watch as I hold nothing back, and finally complete the cycle. The light stood, unblinking, following its every move.

Amphora raced along, his Scales of Truth penetrating the earth to follow the demonic mass, unsure of where Sybil or the Shadow Demon were headed. If it was where he thought it was, it might be too late to stop them; instead, he would have to aid them. Whatever path they chose, as the witness, he had to see it through. Every magic trick needs an audience, after all.

Into the bowels of the deep she ran, until she emerged into a cavern - the walls lined with shining crystal, which blinded her, and singed at her being. There, at the throne, at the head of the hall, she stood, cackling like a madwoman - the jailer.

A basement - Amphora knew he had no chance to follow the spirit through the earth. Instead, he descended onto the warehouse he knew - where he had first met Mother Superior, the witch who wished to pull the Eclipse from his soul. The night was still young, and the streetlights were lit, shining down onto the front of the place. Overhead, the waning moon watched him, like a single eye. 

The witch-queen raised her hands, as did her followers - conjuring something. Some vile sigil of light - a banishment of the shadows. It was true, then, that she purged herself of what she no longer needed - the shadows of her followers melted away into the light, and the unholy radiance pierced into the spirit. As a demon, Ytrea was vulnerable to that radiance - but as a witch, she was no longer.

Sybil fell from the shadows, rolling into place behind a structural pillar. Looking behind her, she saw what remained of the lifeless shadow vaporize in the light. All along the walls stood powerful UV lamps - a mundane threat to the Shadow. What frightened her, though, was the immense light blazing in the room. Some sort of communal magic, with one real purpose - not a magic she had studied before. To her, it always seemed that sight within the dark was better than to burn it away with light. The darkness was an ally, to be nurtured and understood. To Mother Superior, it was a tool - to be used, and discarded. A Witch of Light, to undermine the solidarity of darkness.

Above, Amphora ravaged the empty building. There were occult devices, torturous rooms, things most men would shy away from; but he knew no fear, and knew that they would have to be somewhere. In every room he looked for passage down, through tunnel or stair, grate or vent. He found nothing but concrete foundation, and no insinuation that a basement could exist at all. That was, until, he saw something shocking - a dot of light, on the ceiling. Suddenly, he remembered who was training him - one of the greatest detectives in the world.

Though she could not call on the shadow, Sybil was not powerless. She was, after all, a witch. Witches are individuals - they must rely on the divine and the profane, and on their Coven, but mostly upon themselves. The world Beyond our own is a place where nothing can be trusted; and so, they must learn to prepare for the unknowable, and unthinkable. Sybil had prepared.

With a swift movement, she doffed her long coat, and bared herself to the world. She wasn't like Amphora - she didn't keep her Book of Shadows on her body - but that didn't mean she was not powerful empty-handed. She envisioned a circle of magic, and with her hand raised, she conjured it - the essence leaking from the marking on her heart to fill the empty space with magic. Demon Blood, it was, which allowed one to perform magic without preparation. That, or a demon’s essence.

Her mind's eye parted from her body, streaking into the aether. Within the local astral genre, she perceived the great use of magic - spiritual mana of light, fueled by the Sun - no, UV radiation, she told herself - which was itself fueled by steel fire - no, electricity. That was it - she had to cut the power!

She opened her eyes, and glared around the room, but the intense bright lights seared her vision and blinded her for a moment. She could not see the power cords for the lamps. With another conjured circle, she focused her mind's eye once more - and channeled it into hearing. The vibrations, the echoes, of the world around her - languages, cries, resonances - they each told a story. The hum of power - that was it. The hum, the hum... her ears followed the path it took, to the end, and then to the source. She focused on it as she pressed her hand against the wall, allowing the Shadow to snake through, unhindered by the light.  Inch by inch it crawled, until it found the wire - and sliced it entwain.

The lights went dim as Amphora finally found the electronic panel to open the hidden passage. Outside, he heard the transformer go down. Thankfully, the panel - no, it was down too. He cursed, and raised his book. The old fashioned way wasn't always so bad, he hoped.

The witches fell silent as the artificial light around them went dim, and then blacked out. The room was still bathed in light from the radiant sigil, but now it seemed that the offering was gone, and the energy to the sigil began to run dry.

Mother Superior cursed this, and she turned to the Sisters. "You hags! I will not let us fall to some child! You all owe me your lives, so now is the time to pay your debts! This light shall burn as long as you all have air in your lungs!"

The witches, in pure fear and terror, continued their chants - the sacrifice now, their own life. It was a poor idea, to most witches, but to those with no greater cause, and nothing left to lose, it seemed a necessary thing. There was no more thought - all for Mother Superior.

Sybil swore to the Great Goddess - they were mad, and they needed to learn the truth - but how? She was out of options. The sliver of shadow in which she sat was slimming, quickly, as the life energy burned far brighter than mundane radiation could. The mere reflection of light against the walls was beginning to sear against the mark on her chest - and if the demon died, so did she. That was their pact.

A loud cry and an explosive burst shook the concrete bunker to its core, as from the ceiling the Spear of God fell onto the She-Devil. The green cloak, like heaven's rolling fields, rippled as its wearer, the Wrath of the Lord plunged, gripping Micheal's Javelin. Into Mother Superior he fell, dwarfing her, and piercing her wholly, crushing a number of small demons within her entirely, and pinning her to the ground. The radiant sigil faded into nothing, as the cavern sank into a deep darkness - illuminated only by the pale glow of Amphora's spear.

The spirit smiled. The watchful eye of God had sent a being - a Spectre - to help fulfill this dark thing's destiny. She coalesced again around the girl, and strode into the head of the room. Witches scattered at her feet, fearful of the end they brought to themselves. The faceless thing wordlessly thanked the Spectre, and caressed him like a lover, gripping his face with victorious lust. In a final stroke, she raised her fist, and brought it down upon the Witch-Queen-

Amphora stopped the Shadow, clenching its wrist in his massive hand. He drug one finger through the air, to her bosom - where lie the incomplete rune. The signature that had no meaning - if it was not finished. The contract, that was not yet to be enforced. He placed that finger on it, making a swift mark - one which glowed with fire and spirit and light, etching itself over the heart of the Shadow. With that stroke - there was only one reading of this sigil. Looking down, the Shadow heard a voice call within it.

Justice.

* * *

Amphora was thankful to hand the witch off to Stormdrake. She had coerced other magic users - with tricks of the mind, both mundane and esoteric - to give her their lives, which, thanks to a generally accepted treaty, was punishable within the Realms of Magic. Stormdrake, for his part, was proud of the two of them. They were only two kids, and they had taken down what was basically the biggest coven in the Northwest US - one of the biggest in the country, actually, and one of the only ones to go as far as they did.

There was also the matter of the whole "summoning Eclipso" thing - which not even Stormdrake could confirm would have been possible. Maybe she knew something they didn't, but it seemed like they were still in the dark as to the specifics of Amphora's condition. What was clear, though, was that whatever may come, they had the tools to take care of it.

Sybil was still coming to grips with herself, and her strange, powerful identity. The two, she and the Shadow, had given themselves each other - they were one and the same. Some around them thought she was insane, but she found some solace in a place where everybody knew her name - the Oblivion Bar. Upon the hearty recommendation of both Stormdrake and Amphora, she was allowed to work there - as a hostess, and bartender. She sees the irony - seems like she'll always be serving drinks. But at least she's got people who understand her - and, if nothing else, a friend. Her first one in a long while.

Yep, she's got it good.

* * *

"Pizza's here!" Sybil shouts, checking her phone. She hops over the bar and runs over to the door while a number of patrons - celebrating the new hire - whoop and cheer. She's glad they seem to like her; she figures that the word of what her and Amphora did spread pretty damn quickly, and she'll take her 15 minutes of fame, thank you very much.

She opens the door to the Route 99 overpass, and a very familiar delivery driver...

Both of the girls shout and fall back, startled. Kensie O'Neil, more rarely known as RubberMaid (by... only Sybil Ytrea), throws her arms into the air, along with a stack of six large pizzas. Sybil, for her part, throws her phone and wallet.

Both are quietly stunned when, while they're too busy staring at each other in horror, the pizzas and accessories silently fall lightly to the ground. From behind her, Flippy clicks his tongue.

"First day, and you're already dropping dishes." He laughs, lightly, and waddles away to let them handle their own business.

The two look at each other silently, until Sybil speaks up. "I'm... I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I was... It's complicated. I'm so sorry."

Kinsey swallows, and shakes her head. "Uh... you're fine. Don't... don't worry. Just..."

"Don't say anything about the costume?" Sybil asks.

"Yeah. And I won't say anything about..."

"The... rampage. Yeah. Good."

"So... pizza?" Kinsey smiles, warily.


End file.
